


The Little Guy: A Homelander x Hughie One-Shot

by annie000expatriated



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Gaslighting, Kidnapping, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Revenge, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:42:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27994701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annie000expatriated/pseuds/annie000expatriated
Summary: “You’re going to stop hunting Starlight. You’re going to leave Elena and I alone. And you’ll let Ryan go. Or I release this.”At the end of Season 2, Queen Maeve backed Homelander into a corner. She pitted his desire to be all-powerful against his obsessive need to be loved. The second won out over the first.Yet he didn’t agree that he would never get revenge. He just has to be careful about his target.A Supe’s weakness...is the people they care about.
Relationships: Hughie Campbell/The Homelander | John
Comments: 6
Kudos: 105





	The Little Guy: A Homelander x Hughie One-Shot

“So, Starlight’s boy? I promised Maeve I would stop hunting that girl. I didn’t say anything about _you,_ though.”

Hughie Campbell knew that voice. Homelander’s deep baritone sent chills up his spine. He spun towards the sound. 

He saw only an empty alley. There was a rolling metal grate covered with graffiti on the right side, and a brick wall on the left. On the battered pavement sat a half-collapsed stack of empty cardboard boxes. 

_All New York alleyways look about the same_ , Hughie thought. _Like a dirty crease in a garbage worker’s palm._

He shook his head and returned his focus to the city sidewalk. _It’s nothing. I’m working too hard._

The people around him were paying more attention to their cell phones than to one another, and everyone was in a hurry as always. He merged with the flow of foot traffic for another block and stepped into Victoria Neuman’s campaign headquarters.

He smelled copiers, reams of paper, and bitter coffee. The carpeted space before him was covered with well-lit computer desks and floor-length windows that let in the sunlight. People bustled about, mostly on the younger side and wearing casual clothing. The walls were covered with many posters bearing short, catchy phrases like “F*ck Hate” or Victoria Neuman’s picture. 

His feet followed a familiar path past the desks, down a long hallway, and into a windowless room with four monitors lined up along the wall. 

A greenish fluorescent light illuminated the room. Three of the desks were occupied by young men clad in t-shirts and jeans, and every man was talking into his headset. No one glanced up at him.

Hughie tried to suppress a sigh as he sat down, and failed. _First I was the little guy selling stereos...then everything happened._ He mused. _Now, I’m the little guy telling them to turn it off and back on again._

The week passed as the one before it had, and the one before that. He knew he should be relieved to have returned to something like a normal life, but doing tech support for Victoria Neumann’s campaign workers felt like doing nothing at all. And yet somehow doing it in a way that left him exhausted at the end of the day. He knew he should be grateful to have a decent job, and to be fighting the good fight. He should be glad to get a break from all the blood and guts. Yet he had a hard time feeling like anything other than a cog in a machine.

He was on his way home from a Friday night with Annie when he heard the voice again. 

“Behind you, Hughie.”

The voice sounded as though it came from within inches of his right ear. He leapt away from it, almost falling. His eyes cast about the sidewalk for its source. 

He saw nothing but streetlights, and overflowing cans of garbage on the sidewalk. He heard the ever-present hum of traffic nearby and a few distant horns honking.

He sprinted the rest of the way home. He locked the door to his apartment behind him and triple-checked it. 

_I’m just getting paranoid._ He thought. _That’s all it could be. I mean, didn’t I keep seeing Robin after she died?_

_So...why am I seeing Homelander? Or...hearing him?_

***

Monday began much like the one before it, except for Hughie forgetting to grab breakfast. By lunch he felt like a creaky machine in the shape of a man, grinding away with little oil and an empty fuel tank. 

He made a beeline to the convenience store around the corner. He had almost reached it when he saw a flash of blue and gold next to an open dumpster, framed by an American flag cape. A familiar voice broke through the steady din of traffic and the background roar of many pedestrians.

“You've been under so much stress, you know.” Homelander stared straight at him. The strong lines of the Supe's face formed a playful, bemused smile. “Last year you were Mr. Average, living with his Dad and then boom! Dead girlfriend. Next thing you know, you're banging one Supe and killing another. Now, you're Mr. Average again. No wonder you're imagining Homelander following you around.”

Hughie screamed. 

He bolted back to Neuman's office. A dozen pairs of eyes focused on him the moment he stepped through the doorway. Their gaze grated away at him, making him want to hide his face. He looked down and saw his hands were shaking. He caught his own reflection in a nearby window. He had the eyes of a frightened prey animal. One who was being chased by a massive wolf.

_Goddamn it...how do you tell your boss that you've started seeing things?_ Hughie made his way towards the washroom and splashed icy tap water on his face.

The hours dragged on. He felt half-dead by the time he took the subway home.

He had almost reached his apartment building when he heard footsteps right behind him. He felt a thick, dark hood being pulled over his head and drawn tight. It obliterated all light around him.

Hughie smelled a strange chemical scent, as though the black bag over his head had been dosed with something potent. His entire body went limp. His mind fell into the void.

***

The first thing Hughie felt when he awoke was a sense of being off-kilter, as though his inner ears were trying to find a sense of balance and failing at it. 

He tried to move his head to the side and found he couldn’t. His temples were somehow clamped in place. His back ached as though it had been pressed against a hard surface for a long time. He felt bare wood against his spine and shoulder blades.

Hughie opened his eyes. Then he shut them against the brilliant glare of a single bare incandescent bulb above him. He tried to lift his hands and felt a dull, steady pressure around both wrists. Something bound them not to each other, but to a thick belt fastened snug around his waist.

He blinked away the stinging light and waited for his eyes to focus. What little he could see of the walls and ceiling was either bare concrete, or lost in shadow.

He looked down at his own body and saw that he was still wearing his light blue button-up collared shirt and dark jeans. There was a long black strap across his chest, binding him to the wooden plank beneath him.

The plank was slanted, he realized. It put his feet higher than his head. Those feet were still clad in battered old sneakers. The same sort of black strap that kept his chest in place bound his ankles together, and kept them secured to the sand-colored plank of wood beneath him.

He heard the shuffling sound of boots on a bare cement floor. He tried to snap his head towards it but could only move his eyes. The room echoed as though it were vast, windowless, and nothing but hard concrete. Every little noise bounced around.

The voice came from somewhere past Hughie’s head. Out of his line of sight. Hughie felt as if that deep baritone shook every molecule around him, from the cold air to the cells of his body.

“Wakey wakey, boy.” Leather-gloved hands clapped together twice. 

_Homelander._ Hughie felt as though his bones had turned to ice. _I wasn’t just...seeing him. So I’m not going crazy._ He gritted his teeth.

“Remember when I baptized you?” The Supe’s tone was relaxed, Hughie thought. Casual. As though they were swapping stories around the office on a coffee break. “Oh, it's been a long strange road since then hasn't it? Your heart was beating like a little rabbit’s and you told me you were just afraid of water.” 

He chuckled. That laugh echoed above Hughie for a moment before Homelander’s face came into view.

His chiseled face formed a satisfied smile, showing perfect white teeth. His short blonde hair was only a little tousled. That thick mane fell towards his forehead as he looked down, instead of remaining combed back. The red and gold collar of his deep blue Supe uniform caught the incandescent light above. The golden eagle emblems on his shoulders made him look enormous from this angle, Hughie thought. He heard the swish of his flag cape in the silence.

For a long moment the Supe just gazed down at him. His smile widened as though he was drinking in Hughie’s fear. Then he felt Homelander’s red-gloved hand on the top of his head. 

He was stroking Hughie’s scalp. He pushed those curly brown locks back as though he were tousling the hair of a much younger nephew.

Homelander cocked his head at the thick black straps that bound Hughie’s ankles, legs, waist and chest. “You know what this table is for, don't you? Saw it on the news back when you were still pissing your short pants?”

He recognized it. Hughie ground his teeth together and tried to comport his face, willing himself not to show fear. He didn’t think he could ever keep his voice from shaking so he clamped his mouth shut.

He felt the sharp crack of an open-handed slap. He didn’t even see Homelander’s right hand move, his left cheek just blazed with pain. He heard the sound echoing off of the concrete walls.

Homelander gripped Hughie’s wavy hair in one red-gloved fist. The soft squeak of leather was magnified by the room’s acoustics. 

“Say it, goddamn it.” The blonde Supe’s voice was a low growl this time. Homelander’s chiseled face was mere inches from Hughie’s own. He could smell the older man’s hot breath. It was meaty and thick, as though he had just enjoyed a good meal. 

“Your simple-minded parents might have even chatted about it over their mac and cheese. They asked each other, _is it torture?”_ He gave a condescending smile and shook his head. “Now, what is this table built for, young man? _”_

Blood pounded in Hughie’s ears. He tried to move his legs, his wrists--anything at all. The straps held him fast. His silence only earned him another blow across the face. When Homelander raised his hand again Hughie’s control faltered and he shouted out the word.

“Water! Waterboarding. It’s...it’s for waterboarding.”

Homelander gave a long, slow nod. “Good boy.” 

Hughie saw him bend down to reach for something. When he stood up again he held a gallon jug of water in one fist and a dark red cloth in the other.

Homelander raised his eyebrows and looked down at Hughie. His grin showed teeth. His tone was that of a stern authority with a naughty or thoughtless child. 

“Ever ask yourself when _you_ would be the one on the table?” He shook his blonde head once. “Because you _should_ have. The moment you decided to go against the Seven.”

Darkness closed over Hughie’s face. The cloth lay heavy on his eyes, nose and mouth, and it was only getting heavier. 

He felt icy water splashing over his head, soaking his tousled curls. His own breath sucked at the cloth and glued it to his face. His chest filled with a blind animal panic and he thrashed against his restraints.

The liquid ran up his nose. It flowed over the sides of his face and filled his ears. Some remote part of him heard the runoff splash into a bucket beneath him. It made the hollow sound of water bouncing off of plastic.

Hughie gasped, and choked, and struggled. He had no sense of time in that moment, only of drowning. He thrashed against his restraints hard enough to bruise. 

Homelander lifted the wet cloth from his face. Their eyes met. Hughie saw no rage in the other man’s features, only a light sparkle to his eyes and a smile playing across his lips. As though he were taking the measure of a new toy, and imaging all the fun that he could have with it.

Hughie’s panting echoed off of the walls. 

“Yeah...you’re a bit shy of thirty, though you’re still a skinny little bean sprout.” The Supe chuckled.

He set both items down again and began to tug off his gloves. He took a long time with them, pulling at one finger at a time and then placing them on the board near Hughie’s feet. He made slow, deliberate gestures. _As though,_ Hughie thought, _he’s trying to emphasize that he has all the time in the world._

Once he had recovered his breath the young man realized that he had not even thought to wonder at where he was. The bare darkness reminded him of what Butcher had said about CIA black sites. _But I could be anywhere. New York, or the other side of the world…_

“You would have been just shy of ten when my table started getting _really_ busy.” Homelander let one now-bare hand rest on Hughie’s upper thigh, as though his flesh were simply part of the wood beneath it. Part of the furniture. 

“You wouldn’t even remember...that I haven’t always had tables like this one. But when people get scared, believe me. They will give you _anything_ you want.” He grinned.

Homelander’s left hand slid upward, towards Hughie’s groin. The other one came to rest upon the younger man’s cheek. “I'm a lot older than I look, you know. All of those wars you read about in school? You could say I came in...around the middle of the second big one. So, believe me, I've seen a lot. And this method is just amazing. It's broken much better men than you, all without leaving a scar for anyone to complain about.”

He lifted both hands from Hughie’s body. In a moment the cloth was in place again and water was filling his nose, invading his mouth. He thrashed. He tried in vain to scream.

After seconds that felt like hours the rag was lifted again. Homelander bit at his bottom lip with a triumphant expression, eyes afire. “Look at you. You’re snivelling.”

One hand came to rest on Hughie’s chest. It still held the rag, cold and damp against the now-soaked material of his blue button-up shirt. 

“I made a deal. I won't lay a finger on Starlight. But I followed her, and she led me to you.”

“What do you want?” Hughie’s whole body trembled. The words were almost a squeak. “I don’t know anything. I haven’t seen Butcher in months, I don’t know Annie’s weaknesses--I’m in tech. Computers. I eat cheetos and answer the phone, seriously! I wanted a normal life again so I asked Neuman to hire me. That’s all I’ve been doing for months now.”

Homelander raised one finger. He moved it back and forth in a scolding gesture and made a tsk-tsk sound. “I know.”

He gave a theatrical, long-suffering sigh and toyed with Hughie’s hair again, arranging damp curls with his fingers. “You’re not a very good listener, young man. Did I _ask_ you anything? Do you think...that this is even useful? For getting true answers? It’s not.”

In the flash of a moment the red cloth was back in place and Hughie was drowning again. When he was finally able to breathe he coughed and retched forth water. Homelander's voice boomed through the dark concrete space.

“I wanted to rip out your spine, but I made a deal. So, we have to settle for this.” He shook his head once. A smile played across Homelander's lips.

“I was visiting Stormfront in the...facility and she said something interesting to me. Do you know what the best thing is about land mines? They won't take out an army on the march. Sometimes they don't even take out a whole soldier, they just blow off some legs. Then suddenly his brothers-in-arms have to carry him. With enough of those, well...soon half the army is holding stretchers for the other half, and they're weak. As you are now.”

His voice was like cold steel. “I am going to make Starlight carry you.”

Homelander settled into a rhythm that felt endless to Hughie. It was a timeless, closed loop of suffering. Choking, drowning, pausing to talk, then starting the process over again.

“How many men do you think have been on my table, Hughie?”

He spluttered and begged with every breath. “Please. Please stop, please.”

“You don't know? Neither do I. Nobody does. We burned the records, if we even kept them. Because this is just so easy. You drown for twenty seconds, and then I let you breathe. You drown for another twenty seconds, and I let you breathe again. Your third dose of the medicine takes forty seconds, and then I step back so that you don't throw up on me. And then we go again. As many times as we have to.”

Hughie’s vision was obscured but he felt the Supe’s breath against his ear. It tickled the skin of his cheek. “I don't need any information. I'm not interested in confessions.” 

Water engulfed Hughie's senses. He thrashed about on the table. When Homelander lifted the soaking red cloth Hughie was weeping freely and his whole body trembled.

Homelander grinned down at him. He patted the younger man’s cheek as though in a gesture of approval. “That’s how it is now. Your every breath is in my hands. Because I’m fucking _Homelander.”_

***

Hughie felt gelatinous with exhaustion when Homelander finally loosened the straps that bound him in place.

He didn’t try to rise to his feet. He didn’t feel as though he ever could again. He rolled over onto his side and coughed--once, twice, a dozen times without stopping, even after his airways were clear. He felt watery snot running from his nose like a faucet. He heard it splatter against the inclined wooden board and drip onto the floor. 

He felt the wiry fabric of Homelander’s uniform against the chilled flesh of his right arm, and a strong hand squeezing the opposite shoulder. He realized that the blonde man was lifting him up, supporting his weight in a way that made Hughie think of a quarterback guiding a limping teammate. He tried to stand. His legs felt like rubber.

The support was there...and then it wasn’t. Homelander released his grip and the young man fell hard to the floor.

He felt thin padding beneath him and the texture of cheap fabric. He looked down to see that there was an old mattress between him and the floor beneath. It was big enough for two, but just barely. In the harsh light it looked yellowed with age and use. Foam escaped from a worn corner. But at least it was clean.

“I do have one question, my boy.” Homelander stood with the toes of his boots against the edge of the mattress. He gazed down at the smaller man with a mocking smile.

Hughie rolled himself into a ball, his knees against his chest. He knew how pitiful it must look but somehow that awareness didn't reach his muscles. Any more than he could stop from panicking when that icy water flowed up his nose.

He twisted his head enough to look up at Homelander. The tall man raised an eyebrow as though expecting an answer. 

“Y-yes?” Hughie breathed. _He looks like a monument_. He thought. _And that makes me...what? The pigeon? Or the dirt underneath?_

“Next time you’ll put a ‘Sir’ after that. Unless you want to go back on my table here. Now, tell me...does Starlight bend over for you? Suck you off? Or is it more like a queen who mounts the stable boy when she's bored?”

Homelander threw his head back and laughed. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at Hughie, his features expectant.

He shook his damp head and tried to focus. _Oh…_ Hughie thought. _He actually expects an answer._

“Uh...I don't know, it's just the normal stuff. Missionary, or...um, cowgirl.” He blurted out. “Sir.”

Homelander rolled his eyes and lifted a bare hand, as though to strike him again. 

Hughie scrambled backwards and flinched.

“ _Look_ at you.” The Supe rested his hands upon his hips and puffed out his chest. “You'd better have eaten her cunt for hours by now. We're a different breed, you know. We fly, while you _work_.”

His hands strayed to the front of his tight navy blue pants. A golden eagle belt lay about his waist like a crown, and the fabric of his uniform was textured in the shape of many eagles. His gestures drew attention to the bulge at his groin, though he did not touch it directly.

“So, tell me.” His voice lowered to almost a hiss. “Do you want to get back on my table, or do you want to get to work?”

Hughie grimaced and he felt his whole body shake. _Oh, Goddamn it._

_It's him. I should have known._

Revulsion churned in his belly. Yet the thought of being put back on that table and drowning again filled him with a greater fear. Terror of falling down into that chasm of suffocation. Of begging to simply come out of it alive. Next to that, a bit of humiliation felt like nothing. 

He reached one hand out until it rested against Homelander’s golden belt. He looked up.

The Supe narrowed his eyes and nodded once. 

Hughie fumbled with the dark blue fabric in front of him until he managed to peel it down to the middle of Homelander’s thighs. 

As he worked at the pants, he thought of the crude jokes his friends had bandied about as early as junior high. Jokes about the smaller man having to yield to the more powerful one, specifically in prison. _Every American man has considered what that would be like at least once,_ he thought. _Well, maybe not the trust fund babies… but everybody else._

The practical applications of a hierarchy, he thought. A pecking order. What happened if you failed to stack up to other men in prison, and ended up on the bottom. Literally.

Homelander’s erection sprang up an inch from Hughie’s nose, smelling of thick musk and sweat. 

Hughie stared at it open-mouthed, feeling like a deer in front of headlights. He had never touched a cock that wasn’t his own. He began to slide back on the mattress, shying away from it.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Homelander’s face was a mask of exasperation. He reached down to grip Hughie’s skull with both hands. 

His fingers were like iron bands. Hughie screamed aloud, his mind flashing across the litany of deaths he’d witnessed since Robin’s. Popclaw accidentally crushing her landlord’s head with her thighs. Susan Raynor standing before him with a bloody nose...an instant before everything above her shoulders popped like a water balloon. 

His scream was cut short. Homelander buried himself to the hilt in Hughie’s throat until he choked, pulled back, then rammed into him again. 

Hughie gasped for breath. His hands flailed at his sides or slapped against Homelander’s thighs, uselessly. He tried to push him away but it was like expecting a mountain to yield. The stronger man jerked Hughie’s head back and forth as though it were an extension of his own fists, not part of another person. _It’s like he’s using my face as a Fleshlight._ He thought.

It felt like another round of waterboarding to him, except for the fact that he could occasionally suck in a stray breath through his nose. He couldn’t stop struggling against it even though he knew that every gesture was useless. He felt as if the engine within his chest that burned to breathe again also made him flail, and shake, and fight.

Soon he felt it swell in his mouth. Homelander shivered once. Hughie felt hot liquid in the back of his throat and he gagged.

Homelander released his head. Hughie crumpled to the mattress as though he were boneless. 

He heard a tsk-tsk sound above him. “Well. You look like a good little cocksucker, but you’re terrible at it. Appearances can be deceiving I guess. Get back on my table."

  
  


***

Hughie awoke in darkness. The air around him smelled stale. He couldn’t stop shivering.

He felt like he had been through a meat grinder, but found that he could move his arms and his legs. Nothing was broken.

The back of his throat ached. Homelander had used him for oral gratification twice and put those groping hands all over his body. But the Supe had not removed any of the other man’s clothing.

Hughie remembered that deep voice above him while his mouth was full. “Sure, I like the ladies best,” He had intoned. “But a hole’s a hole, isn’t it?” 

The single light that had shone in this vast room was gone now. He didn’t hear or see anyone, he thought. But that didn’t mean he was alone.

The mattress beneath him felt damp and thin. His whole body ached even before he began to move. His muscles cramped in protest when he rolled onto his side. 

He patted at his front and back pockets and was surprised to feel familiar shapes. Homelander hadn’t taken his cell phone or wallet. 

He felt the weight of his phone in his hand. He blinked against the bright light of the screen before his eyes adjusted to it.

_It’s late morning...and no bars. No cell signal down here._ He thought.

He turned on the flashlight. The slanted table Homelander had used to waterboard him was still beside the mattress, at his left. Hughie averted his eyes and focused on climbing to his feet. 

He felt cold concrete beneath his hands as he leaned on them, raising himself up off of the floor one battered inch at a time. He found the nearest wall and cast his light across it. He followed the wall until he found a flight of stairs. They were made of chipped cement and looked as though they had been worn down by many shoes. 

His legs ached where he had thrashed against the straps that bound him to the board. He took slow, mincing steps. He felt as though he climbed those stairs for hours…

Until at last he saw sunlight.

He ascended the last step and found that he was in a vast, long-abandoned building. He saw steel girders in the high ceiling above, and twin rows of steel pillars that resembled rusted ladders. The concrete floor beneath him was littered with cardboard, garbage, broken concrete and bits of metal. He couldn’t even tell if this used to be a warehouse or some kind of factory. It was nothing but a rusty shell.

Straight ahead of him he saw the empty frame where a pair of doors used to be. He pocketed his cell phone and focused on making it to the exit.

The diffuse light of an overcast spring morning streamed in through windows on either side of him. Or through the steel frames where there had once been windows, and were now a source of broken glass. He picked his way across the floor with careful steps. He could slice a foot open if he wasn’t careful. 

He was a step away from the threshold when Homelander dropped out of the sky. The Supe landed with one knee down and one arm out, his American flag cape rippling out behind him. 

Hughie leaped backwards. 

He rose to his feet and smiled at Hughie, holding the younger man’s gaze for a long moment.

Then he stepped to the side. He extended one arm in a, “Go ahead, after you” sort of gesture, reminiscent of old-time theatre ushers.

Hughie remained frozen, rooted to the spot. He scarcely breathed.

Homelander gave a wide smile and shook his head. “What, did you think I wanted to keep you here forever? I was already getting bored. Go cry on Starlight’s shoulder. That’s the idea, after all. You stepped on a landmine, my boy. Now she will have to carry you.”

The Supe stood up straight and took one step toward Hughie. He laid a hand on the other man’s shoulder and leaned in, as though he were taking a friend into his confidence. 

“But...maybe you don’t even want to tell her. I wouldn’t tell _my_ girlfriend this. What would I say, ‘Hey, honey...all Homelander had to do was get me a little wet, and I sucked his prick like it was d-e-licious.’ Your call though, buddy.” He patted Hughie’s shoulder once, took a few steps away from him...

And leapt into the sky.

Hughie watched that streak of red, white and blue until it vanished into the thick gray clouds above. 

His eyes returned to the earth in front of him. He saw the overgrown remnants of a parking lot. It was choked with weeds and littered with garbage. Beyond that he saw a line of withered trees, and a busy road. He recognized the signage beside it and realized he was still on the outskirts of New York.

He fished his phone out of his pocket and stared at his contact list. Homelander’s words rang in his head, but he shook them loose. _I’ve kept too many secrets from Annie already. It’s not like she won’t be able to tell that something is wrong…_

He selected her image. His finger hovered over the green “call” icon.

He paused. _Make her carry me…_

_No._

_Homelander underestimated me. He underestimates everyone who isn’t him! Those types always do. That’s their biggest weakness. He is even cockier than Translucent was…_

_Translucent._

He pressed the “back” button and selected a different contact. _I’ll call Annie second. But first…_

He selected the image of a dark-bearded face, framed by the collar of a loud Hawaiian shirt. 

Billy Butcher. The man had crossed his mind almost daily though they hadn’t spoken in months.

He heard the surprise in Butcher’s thick, fearless voice. He stumbled through a few pleasantries before he found the right words.

“Hey.” He coughed. “Remember what I said about being tired of all the blood and guts? Well, that was...a phase. It’s over. Being the little guy--I mean, being in tech support for Neumann isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

He heard concern in that deep, familiar voice. “Y’okay there, lad?”

“Of course.” Hughie cleared his throat. He felt as though he could still taste icy water. Still feel Homelander ramming away at his mouth. 

It steeled his resolve.

“I’m fine.” He insisted. “I’ve just had enough of keeping my hands clean. Let’s go get ‘em dirty again.”

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
